I have always had quite a difficult time finding the things I leave in my house. Not the couch or bed, per se, but like, my keys, for example. Or my purse. Sunglasses. Coat. Shoes.
In fact, the only reason I can find my socks on a regular basis is because I don't wear them unless I absolutely have to. (ok, you're right, not having to look for something isn't the same as not losing it). I'm actually a relative newcomer to wearing flip flops --or as my mother calls them, thongs, which is NOT the same thing to my generation. I presume my kiddos will have to redesign the name of something -- probably once everyone has had lazer hair removal on their vaginas, and they actually want all that hair back, they'll call the crotch toupée something like "false eyelashes" and then I'll shout across a crowded room of teenagers, "Hey, Kiddo #1, are you wearing false eyelashes to Prom?" and she, and all the other youngsters will DIE OF EMBARRASSMENT. And I, once I understand what I just shouted, will finally understand that it's time to take the nose ring out; there's no way I can pretend I am young anymore.
... where was I? Ahh yes.
Flip flops. As I was starting to say, I only started wearing flip flops 4 or so years ago. In fact, it was my bloated-end-of-pregnancy feet that finally encouraged me to give them a second try. I have a high instep. Basically what that means is that I can't wear ANY of those adorable boots that come to your mid-calf and higher, and, until roughly 2007, I could not wear flip flops. But, perhaps with the change in the name from Thongs to Flip Flops, there was some technology that allowed those with very high arches to wear the best shoes ever invented.
I, frankly, don't care what happened beyond my new found ability to wear them year round. In fact, when I wear them around the house in the Winter, I forget that I've been snow bound for three weeks writing "All work and no play makes Elizabeth a dull girl," over and over on my typewriter.
At any rate, I have a real problem finding my crap, including my flip flops. For those of you wondering whether or not to have kiddos, this is a huge selling point-- my kiddos FIND my CRAP! It's unbelievable that someone with 50% of my DNA can just know exactly where all my crap is. Instantly. It's like having everything you own on those submarine beep-screens. (don't scoff at my lack of military knowledge. Just smile and thank heaven I'm not protecting your country, ok?)
Kiddo #1, for example, can find my keys in a fraction of a second. Kiddo #2... well he's a bit young to train as my personal bloodhound, but he can find my boobs even faster than Kiddo #1 can find my keys. Truth.
For the last week, I've been missing my wedding rings. I have eczema under my rings so I have to make sure the area stays as dry as possible, which, when changing diapers, preparing chicken, hugging kids, painting picnic tables, sewing twirly whirly skirts and dancing in the kitchen with my hubby, is pretty darn impossible. So I keep them in one of three places. Only they weren't in either of those three places. At all.
It started to give me real anxiety, which of course makes my eczema flare up. So, it was kinda good that I didn't have my rings, and kinda bad. So, when I asked Kiddo #1 if she'd seen my rings, she said, "Oh! Yes." and ran to my bathroom. She rummaged through my drawer until she found a wee package and, triumphantly, handed over the booty. Yes. Nose rings. Ok. "So, have you seen mommy's rings that go on this finger?" I showed her the finger, lest she rummage through my jewellery box to find any of my random rings I wear. Geez. What kind of help IS she, anyway?
I called the Cleaning Fairy to see if she'd moved them when she laid her last round of glitter down, but no. She hadn't seen them. I'd had family on both sides over for a celebration, so I called each one of them to see if they remembered seeing my rings. I was getting pretty panicked. My hubby, desensitized from my losing my keys (at my sister's) 4 hours away over the course of almost two months, even tried to help me find my missing rings, and didn't freak the f-out, either. (I think, when he marries again, his second wife will really want to thank me for molding him into the kind, considerate, clearly abused man that he will be by then. And, if you're New Wifey, reading this from the future, you're welcome. It wasn't always easy.)
When I found them, tonight, laying on the floor beside the can of stain for the picnic table, I was thrilled and annoyed with myself. I don't just leave my rings laying about. I have three locations for my rings, and never anywhere else. But, clearly I'd left them there, being lazy and not wanting to leave my picnic table masterpiece mid-stroke. No wonder Kiddo #1 couldn't find them. I wouldn't let her near the table lest she get covered with "Fruit Punch" stain (think orangey-pink, although I'm sure it'll get called 'red' by 100% of people that see it). And that's also why the Cleaning Fairy hadn't come across them, she doesn't clean the basement.
But, how do I keep this from happening again? What does it matter? All I can think of is calling my future crotch toupée "False Eyelashes."
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